


you won't build this house on sand

by circuitricardoporno



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: I have lost my way as a human being, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 03:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18490837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circuitricardoporno/pseuds/circuitricardoporno
Summary: “You have to get in his head”Charles gets on his knees.





	you won't build this house on sand

“You have to get in his head”

 

Charles gets on his knees.

 

.

 

He doesn’t pray, praying is for men who don’t drive at over 380km/h next to people they can’t trust. Prayer is for people who need reassurance, not those who accelerate into uncertainty.

 

If he has a votive offering it’s all on track, his reputation laid bare in either broken bits of carbonfibre or the dull, satisfying glare of lights off a trophy. His fingers only grip one thing thing and it’s no altar rail.

 

.

 

Hamilton is touch-starved. He reacts so pathetically to Charles’ contact it nearly makes him snatch his hand back, the glow it lights almost like a burn.

 

The smile is the blessing under a sword blade. Charles feels himself vibrate under it, anticipatory. Some blessings have promises.

 

.

 

He doesn’t mind Sebastian, who can mind himself plenty without Charles’ intervention. He is happy, in the pre-season, to stay supplicant, to take advice on a fight he doesn’t plan to have with Verstappen.

 

He is here to push limits, not sit in purgatory.

 

But late braking only works if you have good timing and waiting for a gap is half of the game. Won't hurt to try and create some, of course.

 

.

 

Sebastian is less sanguine about strategy, seething at the ass-handing they're generously lavished with in Melbourne. Charles’ own grip on his emotions turns more and more genuine as Vettel’s collapses and he doesn't miss the exasperated looks of envy from one side of the garage to the other.

 

It's very nice not to need redemption.

 

.

 

Lewis wants it so badly, wants a fight with an earnest that's almost evangelical. He advocates for it like a missionary to the press, which is fine because it lets Charles see his face while they're fucking.

 

He wants them to notice it. Notice _him,_ the revelatory flash on track, the blinding statement of the obvious is all down to him, though. Lewis thinks Sebastian or Valtteri is going to bring it but everything in Charles’ body is singing a rousing hymn to the vicious, palm-whipping breeze and he is done waiting. There actually  _might_ be a road to Damascus from here.

 

Sebastian gives him a fatherly chuck, a wry smile “No need to push so hard in practice.”

 

Charles doesn’t have to push. There’s sand inside his race suit, peppering the collar of his thermals; blessings upon blessings this weekend.

 

.

 

Sebastian will be turned to a pillar of salt by Charles. There’s no sparing a man from his own judgement.

 

.

 

Lewis is entirely surrendered to higher powers as far as that’s concerned - one of which Charles can subscribe to, the other he can politely accommodate. The track, god - you take constructive criticism where you can.

 

He gets the feeling Lewis is not very familiar with the carnal and tries not to give any of his own out for that. Charles is hardly a lothario but he’s been keen enough on the novelty still to have definitely more recent experience of lying with men than an all-time great delivered to the heavens of a lonely jet.

 

He gathers Nico disapproves - just generally, of everything - but Charles isn’t intimidated by old testimonies. Lewis is dreamy, lying on his side and threading fingers through Charles’ fringe and he knows full well both their thoughts are well away, making beds on tarmac while they’re lying in cotton.

 

Lewis’ lust is for the battle that he still doesn’t realise is with Charles, not Sebastian. Even after qualifying, even after the sweetness of knowing that transcendent lap wasn’t even the best Charles could have done. If Lewis wants a fight, he could come right here and take it but Charles remains #blessed for now.

 

.

 

It’s luck. No curses, just the random brutality of luck. Which Sebastian can’t understand and that’s why he’s spun around by his own superstitions.

 

Lewis has faith for things past this, which is a sentiment Charles appreciates but it’s the _live, laugh, love_ panel in the bathroom his pride’s just been flushed in.

 

He can lick his wounds off Lewis’ skin. A cartography of belief and faith and other things Charles doesn’t really have to have beyond himself. If the older generation wasn’t so very blatant at externalising their issues like a laundry line of relatable content, maybe they’d be less attractive.

 

Lewis is warm and happy for attention, affection, Charles like a misbehaving puppy constantly pushing for a little more - skin, tongue, force, _yes._

 

There are stages to it. Touching and making out, Charles’ tongue meeting Lewis’, settling into each other like a seat fitting until the touches aren’t nervous anymore. The rhythm.

 

Lewis lights up where Charles touches him, so he strokes everywhere like he’s fine tuning the setup, trying not to let his own excitement overtake him, a Michaelangelo moment every time Lewis responds. When Lewis exposes his collarbone, throwing his head back to mumble “Mmmh, _fuck_ ,” like he doesn’t want Charles to see him swear, it’s very much the sweet spot.

 

Charles doesn’t come apart, he arrives in the glorious rush that should have been, spraying Lewis with white flecks the podium is a grotesque, pornographic, oversized version of. Lewis showers him in return, with affection and praise, tucking Charles against him and murmuring gratitude and wonder between peppered kisses.

 

.

 

They don’t get it, still. The press, Lewis, Sebastian, the teams. Lewis insists Seb is up to the task of fighting him, Sebastian insists it isn’t getting away from him, even Valtteri affirms he’s in a fight with _them_ not Charles.

 

Privately, Charles thinks the same on that last one at least. Valtteri is pleasant enough but nothing he’s worried about. When Lewis says "the fight is with those guys," he can't help the  _and also with you._

 

Lewis smiles sweetly, toothily, takes off his sunglasses to greet Charles off his ridiculous scooter like a boyfriend turning up to collect a prom date. Sebastian notices but misconstrues, saying Hamilton’s missing his youth, embarrassingly trying to be on Charles’ level.

 

Embarrassment will come - and if they ever realise it, they might get to his level.

  
.

He doesn't pray, he doesn't hope, he doesn't cycle through superstitious facial hair decisions he just  _does_ and Lewis begs for it, stretched long under Charles as he fucks him. 

 

No prayer, just a little metaphor.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm ill, so writing this involved sort of slipping in and out of miserable consciousness on the bathroom floor - had to go back and re-edit quite a few errors, sorry.
> 
> Title is from 'Justify' by Kyla La Grange, which is a complete banger.


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